<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Doctor by mercurial_misfit</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440852">The Doctor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurial_misfit/pseuds/mercurial_misfit'>mercurial_misfit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(to an extent), /looks around/ anyone gonna give this tertiary character a backstory?, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, POV Third Person, and i am not letting go, i gave dr. pershing more than five minutes of screen time and a babysitting gig, i latched onto the one nerdy socially awkward glasses-wearing anxiety-ridden character in star wars, no beta we explode like the razor crest, no? fine i'll do it myself, not giving pershing a first name until canon does, the mandalorian but i added even more found family, way more fluff than i was expecting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:14:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440852</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurial_misfit/pseuds/mercurial_misfit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mandalorian had taken the Child, and Dr. Pershing had a choice to make: stay behind and hope not to be executed for losing the Child, try and escape on his own and be caught unprotected in the crossfire developing outside, or surrender himself to the Mandalorian and hope New Republic prisons were more hospitable than those of the Empire. No path forward seemed any better than the others. In another time and place he might have chosen to stay, or to run. This time, he chose to surrender. Somehow, in the process, he gained a family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Grogu, Dr. Pershing &amp; Din Djarin, Dr. Pershing &amp; Din Djarin &amp; Grogu, Dr. Pershing &amp; Grogu, Possible Dr. Pershing/Din Djarin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Doctor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my attempt at an AU/canon divergence where Pershing joins Din at the end of season 1 episode 3. I see there’s a few of these types of fics floating around, so I hope there’s enough room in the fandom for another take on it. I’ve been stuck on this idea since I watched “The Sin”, but I wanted to see how the story and characters developed a bit more before sitting down to write anything. I’m hoping to get the fic fairly far into season 2 by the time season 3 rolls around, but this is my first serious fic-writing endeavor, so bear with me. Each chapter will roughly cover one episode of the show, though the first chapter is more of a prequel, with chapter two covering the first two episodes, as it worked out better pacing wise. I’m not planning on rewriting the whole series beat by beat, more just including vignettes here or there of what might have been, episode by episode. I also don’t know if this will turn into a Pershing/Din story or not, depending on how canon goes, though I am leaning that way.<br/>Comments and kudos are always welcome!<br/>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dropping out of hyperspace felt like a gut punch. Dr. Pershing had to assume that one got used to the feeling over time, but he’d never had the chance. Being sequestered inside a laboratory didn’t offer much opportunity for travel. He could count the number of star-hopping trips he’d taken in his life on two hands, with the last having been several years ago. Enough time had passed that he’d all but forgotten to brace himself before deceleration, nearly falling out of his seat despite the restraints strapped across his chest doing their best to keep him secure.</p><p>“Approaching Nevarro, sir. ETA ten minutes.”</p><p>The figure drowning in robes on the other side of the ship’s seating area didn’t acknowledge the pilot’s words, and Pershing didn’t think it was his place to. The rest of the occupants of the ship, a contingent of stormtroopers sporting armor in varying degrees of upkeep, didn’t react either. The few who weren’t staring motionlessly at their laps or out the windows continued their whispered conversations. The hush that had fallen over the compartment felt unsettling after the constant drone of hyperspace.</p><p>Shifting in his seat, Pershing checked to confirm for the umpteenth time that his luggage was all in order for disembarking. His datapads were neatly arranged in his pack, as was his meagre collection of personal belongings, consisting entirely of a lone set of off-duty clothes. He doubted very much he would be spending any substantial time off-duty, but one should always make room for contingencies.</p><p>At least, the contingencies one was able to prepare for. The contents of his pack seemed inconsequential next to the enormity of the task that had been laid before him, but he had been given assurance that the rest of the equipment he would need for his work would be provided. Seeing the state of the stormtroopers, he doubted that quite a bit. There was nothing for it but to wait and see.</p><p>Pershing was used to not knowing in his line of work. Part of the time it was his job to figure out the answer, the other half it was considered none of his business. He had enough self-preservation instinct to learn quickly which was which, to balance on the fine line of remaining invisible, but just useful enough to not be immediately replaced if his answer displeased someone. Never make waves, but don’t drown either.  </p><p>This time felt different, however. Sequestered off to an Outer Rim planet chasing rumours and scientific improbabilities, with minimal contact and minimal support, well…you didn’t send your best on dead-end chases. You sent people you were willing to lose.</p><p>The hull started grumbling as the ship entered the planet’s atmosphere, accompanied by a shake emanating from the floor up through Pershing’s legs until his teeth started rattling. The ship had to be old, to have barely any dampeners in it. Another Empire remnant, clinging to existence by a thread.</p><p>A sudden jerk of the controls rammed Pershing’s head back against the hull, sending sparks flying across his vision. He yelped and reached up to press his hand against the base of his skull on instinct, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Another shake of the ship dislodged them, sounding a chime of metal against metal as the frames skittered across the floor. His eyes had been squeezed shut against the pain, and he kept them closed. It would do him no good to open them now. He would have to wait for the ship to land, and hope no one stepped on them before he could find them.</p><p>The descent through the atmosphere seemed to take an eternity, though perhaps that was the throbbing in his head making it seem so. Pershing gripped tight to the edge of the seat beneath him, keeping his head tucked against his chest to protect himself from anymore wayward motions of the ship. Finally, blissfully, the ship settled onto firm ground, jostling its occupants one last time in defiance before halting its movement.</p><p>Quickly undoing his restraints, Pershing ducked down, just barely avoiding the indignity of crawling around on his hands and knees as he shuffled in the direction he thought he heard his glasses fall. His ears were tuned to listen for the telltale crack of glass and the groan of metal twisting under someone’s boot amidst the clacking of plastoid armor as the rest of the ship’s occupants disembarked, but thankfully it never came.</p><p>“Sir, are you looking for these?” A voice sounded right beside him. Pershing jumped, righting himself from his bent over position, keeping his eyes closed.</p><p>“Ah, if you’re holding glasses, then yes, yes I am,” Pershing replied, holding out a hand.</p><p>The familiar feeling of his frames dropped onto his palm, and with a sigh of relief, he slipped them on. He opened his eyes to thank his saviour properly, but they’d already moved on, leaving him alone in the ship’s seating area.</p><p>Putting another check mark next to his mental note to get some thin chain to loop around his glasses to keep them from such escapades again, Pershing moved over to his luggage. He slipped the strap of his satchel across his chest, once more checking its contents to get back some modicum of composure, before walking towards the ship’s lowered ramp.</p><p>Warm wind brushed against his face and ruffled his short hair, wonderful after the stagnation of recycled air. It was midday where they’d landed, sunlight beating down heavily on Pershing’s shoulders and face through breaks in the ash and clouds, the heat wrapping around him and chasing away the chill of space. It felt a bit like home. Not the laboratory, that was always either icy or chokingly humid, there was truly no in-between—though that couldn’t be helped, of course, considering the exacting environmental requirements of his work. No, this felt like an older home, one he’d long since said goodbye to for good. Not quite the same, there was smoke in the air where there should be dust, and the warmth came from one direction rather than two, but it was near enough to brighten faded memories. He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face towards the sky and relishing the sunlight. He’d almost forgotten the feeling.</p><p>“It is unwise to forgo a corrective operation for such a simple impairment, Doctor.” The voice was whisper-thin and the words accented in a way Pershing was unfamiliar with. Thankfully, the sun had calmed his nerves somewhat, so instead of jumping at the interruption, he only stiffened slightly, before regarding the robed figure hunched over in front of him and flanked by stormtroopers. As their gazes met, the man tapped at his own temple with a gnarled finger, as if pointing at his eyes through the layers of skin and bone. “Your antique ocular device is not easily replaced if an unfortunate incident were to befall it. You would be rendered quite useless.”</p><p>He tried not to read the man’s words as a veiled threat, but the tone was hard to hear as anything else. Pershing resisted the urge to adjust his glasses or take a step back, instead clutching the strap of his satchel tight. The matter of his vision and his glasses was personal, and more complicated than people presumed, but he always found saying such things to be more trouble than it was worth. Either people asked further questions, or they dismissed his words as excuses fueled by cowardice or sentimentality. Neither outcome was preferrable. He had settled on generally providing a vague excuse that seemed to placate most he came in contact with. “My condition is such that surgery is impossible, I’m afraid. However, you needn’t worry that I will be unable to perform my duties. I am fully capable of working without my glasses, should I need to.”</p><p>The robed figure let an unsettling smile unfurl on his face but didn’t respond further, eyes shrewd and shadowed by deep wrinkles made harsher by the bright sun. Pershing had to squint his own eyes slightly against the glare coming off the large medallion laid proudly around the man’s neck, burning afterimages of the Empire’s symbol against his retinas. After a pause that felt far, far too long, the man turned and began shuffling through the landscape of dry dirt and cracked rock, heading towards the settlement the ship had landed just outside of.</p><p>Pershing was disinclined to follow very closely, allowing the stormtroopers to file in behind the figure first. The haze of dust kicked up by the ship’s landing stirred in the wake of the procession, enveloping them like smoke around a dying fire.</p><p>The man had never given his name, nor was Dr. Pershing eager to learn it. He had taken to calling the man Mock-Gideon in his mind when he needed a moniker at all. The man and Moff Gideon shared remarkable similarities, despite Pershing only having cursory knowledge of both: a flair for the dramatic in both wardrobe and demeanor, thinly veiled superiority shrouding a hair-thin trigger of instability, and a need to act as if they knew everything at all times, to name a few of the traits Pershing had catalogued thus far. It surely grated the robed man to no end that he was lower on the Empire’s pecking order than the Moff. Being a scientist rather than a soldier, Pershing occupied a more ambiguous rank in the Empire’s system, such as it was, which fluctuated based on the importance of his work rather than promotions and punishments. The poorly hidden derision Pershing had noted from Mock-Gideon on more than one occasion seemed to stem from his dubious status, as far as he could tell, as he’d certainly not done anything to antagonize the man. It was a less than professional attitude for a work relationship, but it was hardly the only one Pershing had the pleasure of dealing with, so that was not the part of the man’s demeanor that bothered him. No, it was his incessant need to speak in as obtuse language as possible, a tactic no doubt intended to confuse and unsettle the weaker-minded and irritate the more intelligent. Pershing could see the tactic for what it truly was, however, a childish need to elevate oneself in some fashion above the rest, to maintain a shroud of dominance at all times. Despite seeing through the act, he couldn’t help his creeping annoyance and unease when interacting with the man.</p><p>The last of the stormtroopers fell into line, the few more unkempt ones of the group blending quite well into the ashen scenery, the others standing out stark and bright, like sun-bleached bone.</p><p>Inclined towards a little self-indulgence after such an uncomfortable journey, Pershing turned his face once more to the sun. If he held his breath against the smoke on the air, he could almost imagine he was on another planet entirely. He shuffled his feet out of a long-buried habit, trying to dig into the sand beneath him, but found only hardened rock.</p><p>“Come Doctor,” the robed figure called from the head of the procession, his voice barely above a harsh whisper, yet reaching Pershing all the same, “there is work to do.”</p><p>With one last look to the sky, Pershing fell into step at the end of the line. A part of him hoped this job was quick, so he could get back to the relative peace of his laboratory with as little trouble as possible. A softer, oft ignored part of him hoped the whole endeavour was fruitless, despite the scientific intrigue. He knew there was no room for qualms in his line of work, had long since buried deep the part of himself that would care about such things, but there was a spark of disquiet that had settled in his chest ever since this job had been assigned, and refused to budge. He hoped it would not prove to be a problem.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Job</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter takes place right after the scene in the first episode of the Mandalorian when Din accepts the bounty, and hints at what occurs while Din is trying to fix his ship in the second episode (namely, a bunch more tracking fobs getting handed out, with much less emphasis on taking in the bounty alive).<br/>Kudos and comments appreciated!<br/>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The blaster in the room was unsettling, to say the least. It wasn’t as though Pershing had never been around the things, of course he had, just never in a laboratory. Well, what was passing for a laboratory for his purposes. Really, the workspace was not much more than a haphazard collection of equipment in varying degrees of functionality, all crammed into a windowless backroom not much larger than the storerooms in his usual laboratory. Regardless, there was just too much potential damage to delicate work to even think of letting a weapon through the doors. And most of the time, the others around him would have agreed. Mock-Gideon, however, was proving to be difficult. He had far more control over the stormtroopers than Pershing could ever hope to obtain, and a seemingly endless vendetta against any of Pershing’s preferences.</p><p>It was more than a little unsettling to think on why the man was so insistent on having someone positioned with Pershing while he worked. The man had said it was <em>‘a necessary precaution against unfortunate occurrences’</em>, though Pershing couldn’t help but feel as though he was being minded.</p><p>Currently, there was only one stormtrooper in the room, but one was far more than he wanted to be around, especially while trying to concentrate. His efforts so far to get them to leave had proven ineffective.</p><p>“Please point that elsewhere, at least. I’m trying to work.”</p><p>It was hard to tell with all the armor, but he thought he saw them straighten up ever so slightly, which was more of a response than he usually got. After a moment of consideration, the blaster that had been held tight to the chest in a ready stance, barrel aimed haphazardly in Pershing’s general direction, was lowered to point towards the floor.</p><p>“Thank you,” Pershing muttered dryly, going back to calibrating the medbed’s bio scanner.</p><p>It didn’t help his nerves any that he was already rattled, having just been in the middle of a potential shoot-out only an hour past. It had been partially his fault, rushing into the room without preamble, he knew that. But it wasn’t his fault that the laboratory was in complete disarray and he was the only one able to do anything about it. Such work required ample attention, which left little time or presence of mind to be punctual for meetings. He had already been working for three days with little sleep since arriving, and he still felt as though he had barely scratched the surface of the work he needed to do before he could even think of the purpose he was here for.</p><p>Pershing rubbed absentmindedly against his chest, only to realize what he was doing and abort the motion with a sigh. The tightness in his lungs and sternum that had bloomed when the man in the metal helmet had leveled a blaster directly at him refused to budge, and in fact had since spread tendrils to his shoulders and spine. Pushing past it and trying to work seemed to be only making the tightness worse, but he couldn’t very well take a break, especially now that the retrieval of the asset was underway. Everything needed to be ready for their arrival.</p><p>Despite it being the only reason he was here, the idea that plans were being set in motion did not fill him with the sense of anticipation he would have expected, or even relief that his time here was coming closer to an end. Rather, the spark of disquiet he was trying his best to ignore flared up at the thought, his pulse fluttering in his throat in response. Pershing gripped the edge of the medbed he was working on tight, taking a deep breath to settle himself. He only succeeded in drawing the stormtrooper’s attention, a curious tilt of their helmet before they resumed watching the doorway.</p><p>It would be a while yet before the asset was retrieved. Pershing had time to pull himself together. Only one bounty hunter had been sent so far, even if he seemed to be a rather capable one. If Pershing had understood Mock-Gideon’s ramblings correctly, the man was a Mandalorian, and from Pershing’s limited knowledge of the culture, they would make exceptional bounty hunters. Regardless, the task this Mandalorian was being asked to perform was unlikely to end successfully.</p><p>Pershing’s gaze fell unbidden on a corner of the room, on the boxes tucked away there. In one was a pile of tracking fobs he had attuned himself, ready to disperse as more hunters trickled in to claim an alluring prize. With enough sent out, eventually one would have to succeed. It was basic probability.</p><p>And yet, that same, small part of him wished they wouldn’t, no matter how much he tried to bury it, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why. Or perhaps he simply wouldn’t allow himself to. Not after so long. His vocation was not the most ethical or moral, he knew that. It was leading him to dealing with shadier and shadier individuals on more and more questionable pursuits, but it was one he had believed he had made peace with long ago. Yet this experiment, it stirred a part of him he thought he’d long since lost. Perhaps he had simply buried it deep, to protect it. To preserve it.</p><p>Between one blink and the next, the world faded into a haze, and with a frustrated groan Pershing sat back from his work and tilted his glasses up to wipe at his eyes, trying to get the world to come back into focus. A wave of dizziness crashed over him at the sudden movement, and paired with his fatigued, famished and tense state, the combination left bile rising in his throat. Swallowing hard to keep his composure as best he could, he stumbled out of his chair and towards the door. He just needed some time alone, without someone clocking his every move, to get himself in order. Surely everything would seem clear with just a little fresh air.</p><p>“Sir?” The stormtrooper made as if to follow him, but Pershing put out a hand in their vague direction to signal for them to stop.</p><p>“I just need to check something. Be back in a minute. No need to follow,” his voice was frazzled, much to his annoyance, but the stormtrooper apparently didn’t need much convincing in order to stay where they were. Perhaps he wasn’t being minded, so much as his activities while in the laboratory were. The thought was no less unsettling.</p><p>Passing through the metal doors of the laboratory, Pershing made his way through the dimly lit hallways until he reached the front entrance. No one tried to stop him. Stormtrooper helmets followed his movement as he passed by, but none asked where he was going, nor blocked him from exiting the building. Perhaps they were just as confused as to his status here as he was. He didn’t quite know where he stood with Mock-Gideon, how much room he had to work with, though the man seemed intent on constraining him as much as possible, if only for his own inflated sense of ego.</p><p>The warm, dry air that blew into the building when Pershing opened the doors worked to soothe his mind in an instant. The chill and metallic atmosphere of the laboratory was swiftly overridden by heat and light and life. Though the occupants of the town on Nevarro in which Pershing found himself were a reclusive and untrusting sort, with the only glimpses of them he’d seen on his arrival being figures skittering from one alley to the next, or leaning boldly against walls seemingly daring trouble, he would take them over the impersonality of stormtrooper armor any day. No one was around at the moment, as the entrance was positioned in a secluded alley, but he could hear them, some chattering and dusty footsteps blown his way by the leisurely wind.</p><p>Stepping out of the entrance, Pershing let the doors close and leaned against the sun-warmed wall beside them, letting the outside ease his mind. His hunger couldn’t be helped, he would have to stop by the mess to pick up some rations on his way back to the laboratory, but the headache that had been threating to crest was easing, his buzzing thoughts shuffling themselves into some semblance of order. For just a moment, he let himself pretend he was somewhere else. That the building behind him held the hustle and bustle of a midafternoon cantina crowd. That he had just slipped out for chance to catch his breath. That any moment now a familiar voice would call his name, asking for help with the orders.</p><p>The peace only lasted a short time, broken by the hiss of the entrance opening and a hesitant cough. “Sir, your presence is requested. If you would follow me,” the stormtrooper said.</p><p>This one was slightly more put together than most of the others, as if they’d stashed a pot of polish somewhere and surreptitiously cleaned the dust off their armor each night. Pershing could almost smell the wax, and the gleam off the armor caught the light from outside and made it blinding. Something about wanting to appear professional in a uniform that was a carbon copy of everyone else’s seemed pointless, but Pershing hardly cared enough to comment.</p><p>“Lead the way.” He didn’t have to ask to know who wanted to see him.</p><p>The stormtrooper guided him back through the gloom, their pale armor appearing to give off its own light in the darkness. Looking at the glow felt like staring at an illusion, something that seemed just off, but in a way you couldn’t quite place.</p><p>The hallway soon opened into the wide room used for meetings, easily defendable with only two points of entry and clear lines of sight. The robed man was lounging in a chair, accompanied as always by several stormtroopers standing around as guards. Pershing wondered what the rest did when they weren’t guarding the robed man or invading his laboratory. Did they simply stand still in a corner somewhere, waiting for more orders? Did they play sabacc? They hardly seemed the sort. The polished one took up position near the hallway towards the entrance, blaster held in a disconcertingly ready stance. Regardless what they did in their off time, they seemed too overeager on duty for their own good.</p><p>“Ah, Doctor,” Mock-Gideon said in way of a greeting. He was twirling something between his fingers. It took a moment for the afterimage from the polished stormtrooper’s armor to wear off enough for Pershing to make out what it was. He furrowed his brow.</p><p>“Why do you have those?” The man had seemingly ordered the whole lot of tracking fobs be brought to him, the tub sitting on the table before him, one blinking idly in his hand. “Is another hunter arriving?” The thought of being caught in another potential firefight was not high on his priority list, but needs must.</p><p>“I will be taking over responsibility for their dispersal as of now, Doctor,” Mock-Gideon replied, shifting his gaze from the fob in his hand to staring at Pershing, an infuriating smirk on his face. “Your presence at such appointments is no longer necessary.”</p><p>Pershing should be relieved. No more meetings meant no more interruptions to his work in the laboratory, perhaps allowing him more breathing room to have the equipment in order before it would be required. But his thoughts fell on the last meeting only hours past, on the only point of contention that had been brought up. The conditions under which the bounty should be retrieved.</p><p>“Our orders—”</p><p>“I desire no lecture on orders from you, Doctor.” The robed man placed the tracking fob in his hand in the tub with the rest, before waving one of the myriad of stormtroopers in the room over to retrieve the lot of them.</p><p>“Isn’t it far more productive to acquire the asset alive, so as to avoid another meaningless hunt across the galaxy when the supply of blood inevitably runs out?” The part of him that had been unsettled since he’d first learned what he was to do squirmed at his wording, at the coldness of it, but he didn’t know how else to convince someone like Mock-Gideon the asset should be kept alive. He wouldn’t let himself dwell on why he felt he needed to convince the man at all, why he was willing to draw attention to himself on this matter, when he had kept quiet for so long. Such reflection would only unsettle him further.</p><p>“Moff Gideon and I both understand that efficacy exists by degrees. Sacrifices are unavoidable under such circumstances as we find ourselves in.” The man adjusted his robes and waved a dismissive hand in Pershing’s direction, causing a few stormtroopers to step forward, as if to parade Pershing out of the room. “It is imperative when dealing with reprobates to present strength and power, qualities you decidedly lack, Doctor, I am sorry to inform you. Your usefulness to this endeavor is better served in your laboratory.”</p><p>There was nothing Pershing could do to resist the stormtroopers as they ushered him from the room. A sense of falling took over, as if someone had turned off the artificial gravity on a ship, a loss of control and helplessness that he had no idea how to fix.</p><p>He shook his head, pushing everything but the next task out of his mind. As much as it pained Pershing to agree, Mock-Gideon had been right. He didn’t have strength, nor power, nor did he desire either. Discovery, investigation, experimentation, unravelling secrets that the galaxy tried to hide from prying eyes. Those were the things he was drawn to, what he had always found so exhilarating, so fulfilling. If he could just reign in his doubts, perhaps they could be again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Sinner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We've arrived at the canon divergence point, huzzah! Takes place during the third episode, starting right after the Mandalorian takes the Child from the laboratory and begins making his escape.<br/>Comments and kudos always appreciated.<br/>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All the air in Dr. Pershing’s lungs left in a rush, and he fell back against the wall limp, heart racing. His mind was roiling, a ship caught by the gravity well of a black hole. Each try at a new direction was thwarted by an ever increasing pull down, down, down towards an all-consuming singularity. Perched on the event horizon, he could see nothing but the dark maw ready to devour, one thought pounding against his skull, crushing all others.</p><p>The Mandalorian had taken the Child.</p><p>The Mandalorian had taken the Child.</p><p>The Mandalorian had taken the Child, which left Dr. Pershing with three paths forward: stay, run, or surrender. His decision needed to be quick, otherwise the choice would be made for him. The bounty hunter’s footfalls were already fading.</p><p>Pershing ran through his options as fast as his hazy mind could manage, the adrenaline in his system making concentration hard to maintain. Every sound, be it the thud of boots, the clang of metal, or the high-pitched whine of a blaster firing, caused him to jump and his thoughts to scatter like so much stardust.</p><p>Staying meant facing Moff Gideon’s judgement, an unappealing prospect. The man was not known for leniency, especially towards those who failed him. His idea of punishment often started and ended with a blaster bolt. He was a fickle man though, prone to unpredictable shifts in mood. Pershing’s knowledge and ill-defined position within the Empire’s ranking order could afford him a second chance. It was hard to say which was the more likely outcome. There was also a caveat to the whole equation. He had already been seen as disposable enough to send to Nevarro in the first place, so his chances of being deemed useful to keep around after such a failure were poor, but still, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe that was just false hope on his part though, a wish to keep things as they were.</p><p>In a daze, Pershing’s eyes fell on the stormtrooper who had been positioned in the room with him, now slumped against the opposing wall. He couldn’t tell for certain if they were alive, though a twitch of their boot seemed to suggest they were just unconscious. Stormtrooper armor was designed to spread out the energy of a direct blaster bolt from the point of impact to the rest of the body, which often ended up leaving the stormtrooper merely incapacitated for a time rather than dead, but it wasn’t a sure thing. He could very well end up in a position similar to theirs if he stayed, but without the plastoid armor to give him a fighting chance.</p><p>The lights of the medbed shone pinpricks of red against the stark white of the armor, like beads of blood seeping out of a wound. It was the polished stormtrooper, the one so obsessed with appearances. The Mandalorian’s blaster had singed a burn scar across the front of their chest piece, marring the plastoid irrevocably. No amount of polish would wipe the evidence away. Their only hope would be to find someone with unblemished armor to trade with. With the blaster sounds he could hear echoing from somewhere outside the laboratory, the odds of that were doubtful.</p><p>Pershing pulled himself over to where the stormtrooper lay, not feeling entirely up to standing just yet. Looking at the set of armor up close, he had not a clue how to remove it quickly, nor how to use the weapon laying strewn to one side. If he chose to run, he would need both to have a fighting chance alone. Yet even if he could manage to wrestle the stormtrooper’s armor off, he put his odds of survival even worse than if he stayed. The village was a maze of alleys, one he had no clue how to navigate, nor any idea the dangers it contained. The main thoroughfare would be a battlefield, whether the Mandalorian was pitted against remaining stormtroopers, or disgruntled bounty hunters dutybound to take out those who broke their oath. Regardless of who was involved, Pershing was ill-prepared to survive on his own, armed and armored or not. He was a scientist, not a soldier, which in this situation was worth less than nothing.</p><p>He could wait, hope there was a moment of quiet. Try and slip through the town and escape before more stormtroopers arrived to clear out the mess. They would be led most assuredly by Mock-Gideon, who Pershing was near certain had survived this ordeal, if out of nothing else but spite. Yet even if he did manage to escape and find where the ships were docked, there was no guarantee he would be able to get inside of one and get it working. He had some mechanical knowhow, enough to repair and calibrate the laboratory equipment, but ships were another matter entirely.</p><p>And then what? Where would he go? He had no destination, no resources, no allies, nothing to help him hide from the two powerful entities, the Empire and the New Republic, who would be waiting for him to slip up.</p><p>A series of high-pitched whistles, followed by pops and cracks like fireworks going off, sounded from far away. A number of thuds followed, and Pershing didn’t have to guess to know what they meant.</p><p>Surrender was a question mark. The culmination of such a choice could be a swift end here by the Mandalorian’s blaster, a gruesome end somewhere along the way towards the New Republic, a lifetime in a New Republic prison, a chance at escape when he had had more time to create a plan, or…perhaps something else he couldn’t foresee. Pershing didn’t have enough information on all of the variables the option entailed to gauge the most plausible outcome. All he knew, if his brief observation time was to be trusted, was that if anyone was to make it out of this situation unharmed, the Mandalorian would find a way to do so. Staying as close to him as possible may allow Pershing to survive too. The biggest point of contention was why the Mandalorian had let him live, when it seemed the rest of the compound was given no such mercy. Was it repayment for keeping the Child alive? Was it simply because to shoot him would be to shoot someone unarmed and unarmored, pleading for their life? Was he deemed not worth the time it took to pull the trigger? There was no way to know for certain, which meant there was no way to gauge the Mandalorian’s reaction to his surrender. The bounty hunter could be persuaded by the credits promised by the New Republic for his capture, or the Mandalorian may consider bringing him along too much of a risk when trying to hide from the Empire, and choose instead to leave him behind, or dispose of him on the spot.</p><p>Quiet had settled over the compound. The Mandalorian could already have made his way outside. All Pershing could hear was the blood drumming in his ears, his heart not having let up its staccato beat. It writhed almost painfully in his chest, trying to wrest free of its skeletal cage with desperate bashes against his ribs. The adrenaline hadn’t stopped coursing through him either. Every nerve in his body felt akin to a livewire, jittering and shaking, just waiting for a signal.</p><p>Stay, run, or surrender. Status quo, likely death, or the unknown.</p><p>Pershing had always had an unhealthy level of curiosity. The more something was an unknown, the more he was pulled towards it.</p><p>In a rush, Pershing leapt up and half ran, half stumbled towards the door, losing his balance part way there as light-headedness overtook him. He blinked rapidly to clear away the mist, peering at the doorway through squinting eyes, fighting the urge to fall back down to the floor. The door was stuck open, the panel that controlled its mechanism smoking and sparking. The hall outside held another stormtrooper, slumped against the wall in much the same way as the one in the laboratory. This one was quite dead, however, if the weeping neck wound was anything to go off of.</p><p>The sight of sure death halted him, one last moment of hesitation. Something in him reared back at the sight, urged him to turn around, to hide. He might have called it fear if he didn’t know better. He knew fear, it was an old friend. This was deeper, more primal. Perhaps terror was a better name, perhaps it couldn’t be named at all, that part of you buried in the depths. The core that searched for the surest path forward, that strived for survival above all else, brought out by the unnatural stillness of a life unraveled.</p><p>In another life, it might have been too much. He might have stayed.</p><p>In this life, he pressed on.</p><p>Down the corridor, into another, uncaring if his footfalls echoed against the cramped walls. He wasn’t trying for stealth, but speed. He could already be too late.</p><p>As he ran, he passed stormtroopers strewn about like so much refuse, each with a telltale burn scar on their armor, sometimes more than one. Following the wake of destruction, he had to hope it would only be a matter of time before he came across the cause. He could be going in the completely wrong direction, of course, tracing the Mandalorian’s path towards the laboratory rather than away. He only had his estimation of the direction the sounds of fighting had come from when he had been pondering his next move in the laboratory to guide him.</p><p>Rounding another corner, he stumbled to a halt as a blaster leveled at his chest, digging in painfully. The Mandalorian stood to one side of the doorway Pershing had run through, as if he’d been lying in wait, alerted to an approaching threat by the racket Pershing had made in his dogged pursuit.</p><p>Pershing raised his hands slowly in a show of peace, a recreation of their first encounter, though this time he had no back-up to force the Mandalorian to withdraw his weapon, only his next few moves.</p><p>With a shaky breath, Pershing stepped back into the hallway, giving himself some distance from the end of the blaster. It wouldn’t do him any good if the bounty hunter decided to fire, but at least it wasn’t pressing into his ribs any longer. The Mandalorian tracked his movement with a twist of his featureless helmet, taking a step to the side himself to bring them in line with one another.</p><p>They stood like that for a quiet moment, two cornered animals assessing one another. Or perhaps predator and prey was a more fitting image. Pershing couldn’t help but feel like a womp rat before a krayt dragon, all skittering energy before an unreadable wall.</p><p>Now that there was some distance between them, Pershing could see that one of the Mandalorian’s arms was wrapped protectively around a bundle of fabric, contents hidden. Pershing had thought the bounty hunter had simply found a better offer, wished to take the beskar he’d been promised, then double back and retrieve the bounty to cash it in for more reward elsewhere. But the way he held the Child, tucked close against his side, it was almost parental. Glancing behind the bounty hunter, he could see a circle of stormtroopers piled one on top of the other in the centre of the room, as if the Mandalorian had been surrounded and forced to fight his way out. It looked like far too much trouble to go too for more reward, when it seemed the Mandalorian had been content with the first lot, if his shiny new set of armor was any indication. This new avenue of information threw Pershing’s calculations into even further uncertainty, but it was far too late to change his course.</p><p>Swallowing down his doubts, Pershing took a step into the unknown. “Take me with you.”</p><p>The Mandalorian didn’t show any outward sign that he’d heard Pershing’s words, the aim of his blaster unwavering. The only perceptible change was a tilt of his helmet every now and then to the side, as if gauging whether anyone was sneaking up from behind.</p><p>“Please,” Pershing said, the plea slipping out before he could snatch it back. He moved on quickly. “I-I’m wanted by the New Republic. I’m sure they’ll pay handsomely if you turn me in.” A note of desperation crept into his voice, as the Mandalorian didn’t budge.</p><p>There was one final card to play. His eyes were closed before he realized, but he kept them shut as he spoke. He would rather not see his own end, if it came to that. “If you don’t, I’m as good as dead. I’d rather you finish the job than leave me to the mercy of the Empire.”</p><p>He waited. For the whine of a blaster charging, for the ring of a vibroblade being unsheathed. Perhaps footfalls as the Mandalorian walked away, denying him this last act of pity. He didn’t expect a weight to clamp around both his wrists, still held up in a symbol of surrender.</p><p>Pershing blinked his eyes open, focusing on the set of manacles now binding his arms together. He flicked his gaze up at the Mandalorian, who looked to be eyeing him behind his helmet. Pershing didn’t know what the bounty hunter found on his face. Perhaps relief, perhaps fear, he couldn’t tell which feeling was written most strongly across his features, it was all such a jumble in his chest. Whatever the Mandalorian saw, it proved satisfactory. With a jerk of his helmet over his shoulder, an indication to follow, the Mandalorian set off at a sprint. Stumbling, Pershing trailed closely behind.</p><p>He had half a mind to raise a complaint about the restraints, but decided against it. Whatever detriment they would prove in the escape, it was a welcome trade-off if he could count the Mandalorian as a tentative ally.</p><p> </p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>           </p><p>Escape was a whirlwind of starts and stops, of close calls and last-minute rescues. Pershing had little time to catch his breath, let alone make sense of what was occurring around him. His point of focus narrowed to the back of the Mandalorian’s helmet, following it as a tail follows a comet, everything else a blur of bright lights and shouts and shots.</p><p>There was, however, one moment of stillness in the midst of it all. They were surrounded, huddled in the bottom of a droid cart, blaster bolts whizzing by overhead. A pall had draped over them, the knowledge that they had reached the end of their struggle, had failed. All that was left was to wait.</p><p>The Mandalorian was hunched over the Child, shielding him from the onslaught as best he could. Pershing couldn’t be sure it had been intentional or not, but the bounty hunter was shielding him as well, pressing Pershing against the side of the cart facing the wall of a building, leaving his own flank exposed to any wayward crossfire from the battle.</p><p>A silence settled, blaster bolts ceasing. No need to waste charge when the quarry was huddled in its last refuge.</p><p>Pershing watched as the Mandalorian shifted one of his hands from cradling the Child, to brushing softly against his face, a moment of reverence, of sorrow. An apology. A pang sparked in Pershing’s chest at the sight, at first unrecognizable to him, then all too familiar. He hadn’t allowed himself the feeling in ages, but he knew intimately what it was. Guilt, for his part in all of it.</p><p>He opened his mouth, regrets balanced on the tip of his tongue, loosened by the closeness of death. But the other Mandalorians arrived before the words spilled over.</p><p> </p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p> </p><p>The ship’s landing ramp slid up, shutting out the dusty, warm air of Nevarro, and the last obstacle they’d had to overcome in their escape. It made perfect sense that someone would have been lying in wait should the Mandalorian have succeeded in getting to his ship. Pershing felt foolish for not thinking of it. Regardless of forewarning though, the Mandalorian had handled the encounter with ease, displaying a resourcefulness that Pershing couldn’t help but appreciate.</p><p>Slumping with a sigh against a wall of the ship, the cool metal felt blissful against his tired muscles and bones. The manacles around his wrists had rubbed them raw in the turmoil, though thankfully there was no blood leaking out the edges, just red, irritated skin. Already his arms were seizing at being held in such an unnatural position, but Pershing tried to ignore the sensation as best he could. He knew he would be spending a fair amount of time in them. Unless…</p><p>Pershing eyed the carbon-freezing machine off to his side. The Mandalorian had broken one of its pipes in the struggle to create a distraction, though Pershing couldn’t tell without closer inspection if the damage was cosmetic or serious. He thought about getting up to check, but the exertion of the day had seeped weariness into every corner of his being. He hung his head instead, resting his arms against his legs, tucked tight against his chest. There was no way he would be able to persuade the Mandalorian to keep him out of carbonite for the duration of his imprisonment onboard if the bounty hunter so chose. There would be no planning an escape while frozen. He just had to hope the machine had been damaged, or the Mandalorian proved merciful, if short-sighted.</p><p>Descending footfalls sounded on the ladder leading up to what Pershing presumed to be the flight deck of the ship. The Mandalorian had disappeared above with the Child as soon as the hatch had sealed, and a moment later Pershing’s stomach had dropped as the ship increased speed, accelerating up towards space.</p><p>Pershing hoped his flinch wasn’t noticeable as the Mandalorian landed with a loud clang against the bottom of the ladder. He didn’t know what to do with himself, if he should talk or not, thank the man or sit in sullen silence contemplating his capture. He settled on keeping his position and keeping quiet, hunched over in a corner of the main area of the ship, watching the Mandalorian from his periphery. The bounty hunter fiddled for a time with his weapons, perhaps cleaning them, or checking them over for damage, Pershing couldn’t tell. He then moved on to the carbon-freezing machine, patching up the still faintly hissing pipe. The sight made Pershing’s stomach sink further. The machine may still not function, but the sight was unnerving all the same.</p><p>Finally, the bounty hunter stopped in front of him. Pershing tried to resist the urge to glance up, but his nervous energy betrayed him, even exhausted as he was. The Mandalorian’s helmet gave away nothing of the man underneath. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. What he would do. It didn’t help matters that the man seemed against speaking altogether.</p><p>After a moment, the Mandalorian knelt and reached out towards the manacles, undoing them with practiced ease. Pershing kept still, despite desperately wanting to stretch the cramped limbs. First one wrist was turned, then the other, revealing the battered flesh in all its gory detail. The Mandalorian’s hands felt warm against his skin, despite the gloves encasing them.</p><p>A few strips of cloth were pulled from somewhere amidst the Mandalorian’s accoutrements, and Pershing’s wrists were wrapped, then the manacles replaced overtop of the bandages. Almost immediately, there was a cooling effect, the bandages seemingly treated with bacta or something similar, relieving the irritated flesh of his wrists and causing Pershing to release a soft sigh in relief. Another set of manacles were produced, one end attached to his set, the other to a pipe running nearby. It pulled Pershing’s arms in a slightly awkward way, but he could still lie down if he so chose.</p><p>Standing, the Mandalorian paused for a final moment, as if assessing his work, before turning towards the ladder and ascending the rungs back towards the flight deck. The doors above closed with a hiss.</p><p>Alone, the hum of the ship the only sound, the air took on a surreal feeling. He was alive, well and truly alive. A laugh bubbled up from Pershing’s chest, soft and disbelieving.</p><p>His eyes fell to the manacles, to his bound wrists. Alive, but not free. Not yet. He rubbed a thumb against the cloth peaking out from beneath the metal, protecting his skin from further damage, the infused medicine healing the worst of the harm done. It was such an odd gesture, an unnecessary amount of care. Despite the helmet, perhaps the Mandalorian wasn’t quite so hard to read as Pershing first thought.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Safekeeping (Part 1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Takes place in-between Episodes 3 and 4, during the time it takes to get to Sorgan.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this took far longer than I had planned, apologies for that. If I ever take a planned hiatus, I'll tag the story accordingly. If there's no tag, then it means I am actively working on it, I just write really slow.</p><p>I had intended to write each chapter as corresponding to an episode, but I really wanted to cover some of the time between the rescue in Episode 3 and arriving at Sorgan in Episode 4.</p><p>Feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Pershing became aware of upon waking was the weight laid across him. It wasn’t oppressive by any means, rather pleasant actually, if unnervingly unidentifiable. A blanket perhaps, though the only ones he had access to in the compound were threadbare and barely better than a sheet of paper in terms of heat retention and durability. This felt far heavier and warmer, the parts touching his skin directly rough rather than whisper thin. Maybe a large jacket, though he had not a clue where he would have gotten one.</p><p>He cracked open one eye, just enough to see his immediate surroundings and identify what was on top of him. There was a second where his mind was blank, the metal walls and general disarray around him unfamiliar but not yet registering as abnormal, before the last dregs of sleep slipped away. The escape came first in flashes, then the long hours laying on the floor of the Mandalorian’s ship where he was cuffed, trying to stave off the chill and fall asleep. Eventually, he must have succeeded.</p><p>Glancing over his shoulder without moving his head, the weight revealed itself as some sort of tarp unceremoniously draped across him. He couldn’t remember having it before falling asleep, and from its placement it was hard to tell if he had pulled it down from somewhere half-awake, if it had managed to fall on him during some turbulence, or if someone had…</p><p>“C’mon kid, eat something.”</p><p>Pershing just barely resisted flinching at the voice. He had thought he was alone in the ship’s hold, the tarp blocking most of his view. The Mandalorian had disappeared up the ladder with the Child, presumably to the flight deck, soon after attending to Pershing’s sore wrists and hadn’t returned in the hours Pershing had spent tossing and turning. Carefully, trying his best to not hit his manacles against anything or make any quick movements, hopefully keeping the illusion he was asleep just a little while longer, Pershing pulled the makeshift blanket down slightly, just enough to allow him a line of sight towards where he had heard the voice come from. It was best to observe others when they thought themselves alone, to get the clearest data, and Pershing was in sore need of reliable data on the Mandalorian.</p><p>Said bounty hunter was sitting on a metal crate, an array of ration packages strewn around him. The Child was perched on another crate in front of the Mandalorian, staring dubiously at the proffered gruel. The Mandalorian sighed, long and deep, letting the spoon in his grip droop, a few glops of the substance falling to the floor of the ship in a series of wet thuds.</p><p>“The Child is most likely a hypercarnivore. I would advise offering some dried meat, if you have any.” Pershing snapped his mouth shut, but the damage was done. He blamed his overtired state for his offering of advice, and thus alerting the Mandalorian to his being awake. Pershing felt as though he could both nap for a hundred years, and like he had just woken from a coma, groggy and disoriented and just on the edge of alertness.</p><p>The Mandalorian whipped his helmet up at the voice, shoulders immediately tensing. Pershing hadn’t even realized the man could look relaxed, until his appearance once more resembled a statue more than a living creature.</p><p>There was a moment where neither moved. Then, the Mandalorian bent down, his hand reaching for something on the other side of the crate, out of sight. Adrenaline sparked through Pershing’s chest, chasing away some of his fatigue. Was he reaching for a blaster? The Mandalorian would miss out on the bounty, of course, or at least a substantial portion of it, but it could be preferable if he had reconsidered and now thought the doctor to be more trouble than he was worth.</p><p>It took longer than it should for Pershing’s logic to override his fear. If the bounty hunter had wanted to be rid of him, it would be far simpler to kill him while he was asleep than awake. Pershing’s judgement proved sound when the Mandalorian lifted his hand back into view, now grasping a few pieces of jerky from some animal or another, rather than a weapon. Almost hesitantly, he held one in front of the Child, who cooed after a moment of consideration, reaching for the proffered food with his tiny hands.</p><p>“What else do you know about him?” The Mandalorian didn’t turn his head to address Pershing, still focused on feeding the Child piece after piece of jerky, who inhaled them at an alarming rate for one so small and with a minimal number of teeth to chew with. His tone was oddly conversational, hushed, as if they weren’t bounty hunter and bounty, but two people huddled in a cantina booth, trying not to be overheard. If Pershing remembered correctly, these were the first words the bounty hunter had ever addressed to him. The moment felt strangely monumental.</p><p>A feeling rose up that Pershing couldn’t name at the words. It took him a moment to identify what it was, then another to push past the surprise. Looking at the Child, Pershing felt protectiveness, a reluctance to reveal too much of what made him such an asset to the Empire. The Mandalorian had rescued the Child from such a fate, and showed an undue level of care to those around him, but Pershing couldn’t be sure where that concern came from, if it was fueled by the promise of credits, or simple kindness. Caution, in such circumstances of uncertainty, was the best course of action.</p><p>“Nothing more than what my scans told me. Unknown species, around fifty standard years of age yet still relatively undeveloped, with a physical composition indicative of a high protein diet. Hence my recommendation,” Pershing said, pushing himself up on his elbows so he wasn’t lying on the floor while this conversation was taking place. Getting onto his knees and sitting upright proved to be a more difficult challenge, as his body had stiffened considerably from lying on a metal floor for hours on end, though thankfully the Mandalorian did not seem to be looking in his direction.</p><p>The Mandalorian didn’t acknowledge that he had heard Pershing’s words, still watching the Child, who had now finished the last of the offered jerky and was ineffectually grabbing at the air for more.</p><p>“Sorry kid, gotta ration it, if it’s all you’ll eat.”</p><p>The Child tilted his head, oversized ears perking up, as the Mandalorian spoke. Once he realized no more agreeable food was forthcoming, the Child’s ears drooped, and he blew air out of his mouth in a huff, brows knit together, the picture of an upset toddler.</p><p>The sight brought a soft smile to Pershing’s face, the situation familiar even if he had never seen a specimen of the Child’s particular species before. Fussy children were much the same across the galaxy. “You could—,” Pershing began, then cut himself off. He looked down at his lap, the tarp now pooled around him. He needed to control himself. To not get attached. His time here was limited, whether he devised an escape plan or was handed off to a New Republic prison.</p><p>Something light hit Pershing square in the chest, then dropped onto the back of his manacled hands. Startled, he grabbed at the object to keep it from slipping away, resulting in an awkward scramble of limbs that took a moment to unravel. Gripping the item in one hand triumphantly, he inspected it. A ration pack, much the same as the ones strewn about the floor near the Mandalorian and the Child.</p><p>“Could what?”</p><p>Pershing glanced up, then back down, fiddling with the silver packaging. He bit his lip, then sighed. Might as well, at this point. “You could mix some of the meat in with the gruel. Shouldn’t disturb his system too much, if properly portioned. It may make it more palatable for him. Stretch it so it lasts longer. Usually works.” He hadn’t meant to add the last part, but it fell out before he realized, revealing more than he meant to.</p><p>Directing his nervous energy at the item in his hands, he managed to tear open the ration package as he spoke, finding some sort of nutrition wafer inside. It wasn’t dissimilar in smell and look to what he’d eaten at the makeshift laboratory on Nevarro in his time there, with a dusty odour and myriad of cracks like parched dirt throughout. He bit off a corner experimentally, having to lean over an awkward amount to compensate for his limbs being shackled to a pipe. The wafer chased away what little moisture was in his mouth, leaving an acrid sweetness in its wake in an effort to mask the underlying bitterness as best it could.</p><p>“Experience with picky kids?” It was a question, but somewhat disbelieving, as if the Mandalorian couldn’t quite picture the person before him as anything other than an Imperial scientist.</p><p>Pershing couldn’t quite picture it either. Most days his past felt faraway, as if he had watched holovids of someone else’s life long ago and let some of it seep into his own memories. But sometimes something sparked in his mind and caught fire, lighting up corners he thought lost. The Mandalorian’s question, the Child’s fussiness over food, even the roughness of the tarp against his skin, and the dry sickly sweetness of the wafer on his tongue, every piece slotted into place and set his mind ablaze.</p><p>
  <em>A storeroom, filled with sand and grit in the corners and little else. There were a few sacks of grain, half-empty and partially spilling onto the floor. A basket sat near the door, that might have once held fresh fruit, now desiccated by the heat and sun seeping in through the cracks in the floorboards above. They were still edible, if tough to chew through, their sweetness turned bitter at the edges. Tucked away behind an empty shelf were a few bottles of spices and sugars, hidden as well as could be managed from would-be thieves. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A figure stood just inside the room, a silhouette cast in reds and oranges from the first of the sunrises just cresting the dunes, the light cascading down the staircase to the cellar like a waterfall. She rummaged for a moment with the sacks of grain, the coarse material rustling together loud in the early morning quiet. She muttered to herself, then gestured with her shoulder, as if beckoning someone closer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shipment from the moisture farm got delayed again. Isn’t due now till next week at the earliest, so we’ve got to make do. Folks are still expecting decent meals until then, so that’s what we’re going to give them, right?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Right!”</em>
</p><p>Pershing blinked, once, twice, as if he’d stared at a bright light too long, now desperate to clear the afterimage burned against the back of his eyes. “Something like that,” he murmured.</p><p>The Mandalorian nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer for what it was, a deflection, but not prying further. He reached back down and retrieved another ration pack, tossing it at Pershing’s lap. It was some kind of liquid this time, the contents gently sloshing in the silver foil as it hit the tarp and laid to rest. A protein drink perhaps, as it seemed slightly thicker than just water, though Pershing didn’t bother checking the label to confirm. He didn’t really have a choice in what he was to consume, so it didn’t particularly matter to him what it was, as long as he could keep his strength up.</p><p>The package was a bit different than the one that had held solid food, which Pershing was grateful for at least, as drinking out of a foil pouch did not seem particularly easy. This one had some sort of stopper on one end. He broke the seal and twisted until the lid popped off, then tilted some of the contents into his mouth. It tasted like nothing in particular, though it had the telltale staleness of age. Harsher against his tongue than he expected, almost like a liquid and a powder put together. It wasn’t anything like the bitter diluted caf that had been the sole thing available at the compound, though it wasn’t much more pleasant.</p><p>Pershing took another bite of the wafer, eyeing the Mandalorian and the Child across the ship’s cargo area. The bounty hunter seemed to be following Pershing’s suggestion, ripping up some of the jerky and mixing it into the gruel. The Child looked at the offered spoon dubiously once the Mandalorian was done, but ate it after a short session of pouting. Pershing tried to keep the small smile off his face at the domesticity of it all, but it found its way out all the same. He was doing a very poor job of guarding his heart.</p><p> </p><p>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p> </p><p>            A routine was rather simple to settle into. In the mornings, the Mandalorian would take the Child and disappear up the ladder into the flight deck for much of the day, or what passed for day when one was travelling through space. Before leaving, the Mandalorian would give Pershing a few ration packages to last him through the hours. The only times they interacted during this period was when one of them needed to use the refresher tucked into a corner of the cargo bay.</p><p>            Towards evening, the Mandalorian would come down the ladder, setting the Child off to one side, sometimes in the little alcove the Mandalorian used as a bed, other times on a storage box or just the floor, though always close by. Then the Mandalorian would spend some hours puttering around in the cargo hold. It seemed as if the ship could always do with some maintenance or another, with the Mandalorian hauling along a bag filled with disparate tools to various locations and tinkering away softly. The occasional curse in a language Pershing didn’t recognize, and a few in languages he did, would float past when something sparked or shuddered violently, but other than that, the moments when the three were together were quiet.</p><p>While in the cargo hold, the Child occupied much of his time with grabbing various tools or objects that had been left laying around with the insatiable curiosity of those still learning the ways of the world. Sometimes he would try to eat them, until the Mandalorian noticed and swiftly confiscated them with a gentle reprimand, and other times he simply turned them over in his hands and studied them with his large eyes, almost as if he was trying to figure out how they worked. A few times Pershing saw the Child tossing a small metal sphere. The Child would throw it, it would roll to some corner, and he would toddle over to retrieve it, only to toss it again.</p><p>Pershing had grown nervous on the one instance the Mandalorian had made his way over to the carbon-freezing machine, though the Mandalorian had only seemed to be checking his patch job, and made no attempt to repair it further. Perhaps it didn’t need any more. It was not a comforting idea, and Pershing had quickly put it out of his thoughts.</p><p>            When the fog of tiredness inevitably settled over Pershing’s mind, signalling the coming of night, finally in tune with the perpetual twilight just outside the ship’s hull, the Mandalorian would tuck himself and the Child away in their alcove. The Child would be nestled in a makeshift hammock up above, while the Mandalorian curled up underneath. The alcove door would shut, the interior lights of the ship would dim to near nothingness, and Pershing would tuck himself under his tarp, close his eyes, remove his glasses and place them in a little crevice between the pipe he was chained to and the ship’s hull to keep them from sliding away as he slept. Then, when he awoke, often to the sound of boots clanking against the metal rungs of a ladder, he would slip them back on, open his eyes, and the cycle would start again.</p><p>It had been roughly three days of this now, give or take. Pershing had since resigned himself to the long hours in solitude of cataloguing the clutter of the Mandalorian’s ship through sight to stave off boredom. He knew he should use the time to devise some means of escape, but he had quickly realized it was a futile effort. That line of thinking lead to dead ends and frustration, as there was only so much he could plan ahead of time, with how little information he had on where they were going and what the Mandalorian was planning.</p><p>On the morning of the fourth day, Pershing awoke not to boots thumping, but the sound of something being set down near his head. It wasn’t the telltale crinkle of silver foil packaging, that he knew well by now. This was new, something solid and metal. He froze, then realized after it was already too late to fix it, that such a gesture was akin to opening his eyes for how obvious it was that he was now awake. He kept his eyes closed anyway, partly because he could tell he had turned over sometime during the night and his glasses were no longer within easy reach, and partly in case the Mandalorian hadn’t been paying attention, though he had enough data on him now to know that was unlikely to be the case.</p><p>There was a pause, then the shuffling of footsteps, a coo from the Child, and the familiar sounds of a ladder being ascended. Pershing sat up in an instant when the flight deck doors hissed shut, forgetting for a moment that he was still cuffed to the pipe near his head, until he wrenched his hands hard enough to wince. Ignoring the dull throbbing in his wrists, Pershing scrambled for his glasses, pressed them on, opened his eyes, then looked to see what the Mandalorian had left.</p><p>There, set next to the small stash of ration packs, was a datapad. Pershing had never seen the bounty hunter use one, though he knew everyone had a few squirreled away. Pershing stared at it. Had the bounty hunter left it on accident? He dismissed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. If Pershing knew one thing, it was that the Mandalorian was hardly the mindless sort. Perhaps it was the helmet that gave him the brooding quality, but regardless, Pershing had yet to see the man do something that wasn’t calculated on some level, whether it was taking the doctor as a bounty, or fixing a split wire in the ship’s systems. He didn’t always make the correct choice, if the cursing was any indication, but he certainly thought about them a great deal.</p><p>Hesitantly, as if expecting the datapad to explode when touched, Pershing reached out and grasped the tech. Its metal case was cold and littered with scratches and dings. A long crack trailed one side, spidering out in tendrils to cover almost a third of the screen. From the state of it, Pershing didn’t expect it to turn on, but it lit up with a pleasant blue glow when he tapped its surface. He checked to see if it was connected to any networks, but it quickly became apparent it wasn’t capable of much besides data storage. Even if the option had been available, he had no one to contact who could help. The Empire and the New Republic both would rather he was out of commission, one way or another, and outside of those entities, he had very few connections. None he would want to drag into any of this.</p><p>Pershing had not a clue as to why the Mandalorian had left it for him to find, until he opened the files to see what had been stored on it. Hundreds of books filled the datapad. There were a few he had read before or recognized the name of, but many that were unfamiliar. Though most were written in Aurebesh, as far as he could tell from their titles, he saw a few in a script he didn’t recognize, made up of thin vertically arranged characters. Perhaps Mando’a? They seemed to all be fiction, adventure tales and the like, based on some of the more over-the-top pieces of cover art he scrolled past.</p><p>The surrealness of the situation took hold for a moment, and all he could do was stare blankly at the gently glowing screen in front of him. His gaze shifted unbidden to the top of the ladder, where the sealed flight deck doors concealed the Mandalorian and the Child from view.</p><p>The Mandalorian gained nothing from this gesture that Pershing could discern. There was no point to try and appease the doctor, they were bounty and bounty hunter, with no need to try and build an amicable relationship in the interim between the capture and the exchange for credits. It wasn’t as if Pershing had been making a fuss over being bored and had demanded a distraction to shut him up either. Quite the contrary, he had been maintaining his best behaviour. The more he faded into the background, the less likely he was to be put in carbonite, and the better chance he had of getting away when an opportunity arose. If none presented themselves, at the very least he would be able to be conscious for his last moments of relative peace before the Empire or New Republic got their hands on him, even if it was mind-numbing.</p><p>Pushing aside the questions for a later time when he had more data, Pershing picked a tale at random, then settled in to read.</p><p>It was several hours later when the hiss of the flight deck doors opening signaled the Mandalorian and Child’s descent into the cargo hold. Pershing jerked out of the pleasant trance he’d fallen into as he scrolled through the story he’d picked. He hadn’t read for pleasure in over a decade, yet it was easy to fall back into the rhythm, especially with so few distractions.</p><p>His first instinct was to hide the datapad, slip it beneath the tarp and out of sight, and he couldn’t fathom why. It had been given to him, and yet it felt as though he wasn’t supposed to have it. He compromised with himself, shutting off its screen and laying it on his lap.</p><p>The Mandalorian went about his usual business, setting the Child on a storage crate near his weapons case, and continuing an inspection and cleaning of some of his arsenal that he had begun the day prior. He didn’t glance in Pershing’s direction once. That wasn’t unusual, but Pershing would have rather he didn’t have to be the one to bring up the subject.</p><p>“Thank you,” Pershing said, holding up the datapad. He had been taught to be polite. Even if the situation was strange, he couldn’t leave the words unsaid.</p><p>The Mandalorian paused, just for a second, before resuming his work, giving a slight nod in Pershing’s direction as the only acknowledgement he’d heard the words.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>